


Some Blessed Hope

by Sproutling



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Boys In Love, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Slash, Reading, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7352959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sproutling/pseuds/Sproutling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve muses, is thankful, is in love. Bucky reads, is content, is recovering. <br/>Hands are held, ears turn pink and hope is rediscovered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Blessed Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daily/gifts).



> This is my first Captain America fic (I think it might actually be my first Marvel fic!), and certainly the first I’ve been brave enough to post in a very long time; Civil War left me with an abundance of feels that had to come out somehow... so far they’ve chosen to express themselves through oneshots I find myself feeling forced to write and which have been some of the most enjoyable things I’ve ever written. Reading the poem _The Darkling Thrush_ by Thomas Hardy a day after seeing Civil War was this fic’s catalyst, particularly the lines: _Some blessed hope, whereof he knew/And I was unaware._ I’ve included the last two verses to give it some context at the end.
> 
> I hope you enjoy my first attempt at these lovable hug-muffins :)

 

How had the great Captain America come to be so unobservant? It was long after the jubilant, overwhelming joy of discovering his best-friend-brother- _something-more-one-day-if-he’s-very-very-lucky_ was out there in the world somewhere. Breathing. Living. After nearly dying, then surviving at the whim of that chaotic mind. After the heartbreaking rifts in their beloved, mismatched family.

They had been living together, in each other’s pockets, the way they all secretly loved, for so long that Steve should have noticed long before now. What kind of brother or friend-pining-hopefully-as-patiently-as-possible did it make him that he’d been unaware for so long?

The door frame was hesitant behind him, creaking inaudibly but tangibly through his spine as he leant his weight against it. Arms crossed over his muscled chest, so much _stronger_ than he’d ever been, than he’d been as a boy back when he knew only the child the Winter Soldier had once been and not the test subject, the asset, the amnesiac.  The _struggle_.

He was only just seeing it now. No, that’s not true. He saw the constant struggle, had seen it since they’d escaped together – _could never leave him_ – by the skin of their teeth from Hydra and their experimentations. The first time. If he’d known... But he hadn’t. Seventy years-

And yet... _and yet_...

He could see it now. He could finally see what he’d been blind to since they were both very young in Brooklyn, lacking money, health, stability and facing the prospect that their lives would be spent surviving until the day they couldn’t.

But he’d had it, then.  Little James Buchanan Barnes, he’d had a light in his eyes, a smile that said _this isn’t it, we’re meant for bigger things_. That said _you wait Stevie, the things we’re gonna do, you and me_. 

Steve didn’t know when he’d stopped seeing it, perhaps taking for granted that it would always be there. Noticed, briefly, it’s dimmed presence after the first, all too brief escape from Hydra, but so much had been happening, no time, _no time_.

And then he’d been gone, and thinking of anything even remotely close to that loss had left him hurting.

But that was no excuse and neither was how hectic his life had been since Bucky’s return to it. Because standing here, in the kitchen doorway, watching unobtrusively and, internally, giddily delighted that Bucky had had not even the smallest reaction to his presence, deeming him safe on a subconscious level – progress, always progress – Steve could see it. In Bucky’s determinedly bent head, his gorgeously willful hair in his face making him look soft and huggable and _not now_ -

In his restlessly _tappingstrokinggliding_ fingers smoothing over the ink that was the time he’d lost, absorbing facts that will always be fiction to him as they had passed him by so utterly they would only ever be stories. Stories of a world moving on around him as he was frozen and tortured and refrozen and used and broken and remade and frozen and _stop_.

Steve forced his fists – fingers aching – to loosen against his biceps, forced himself to let the violent, unspeakable rage go, breathed it out. It would always be there, in his chest where Hydra had ripped his heart from him and returned it damaged, always with him, driving him, but he couldn’t afford to keep it on the surface where it could – and would – hurt the one person who didn’t deserve it, had never had or would, it’s not _fair_ -

He approached slowly, subtly shaking anything negative still leftover in his veins out through his fingertips, to sit opposite his... Bucky. The intent look on that beloved face faded when he became conscious of Steve’s presence, seeming surprised to see him. He really had been focused, really did feel safe enough to be unaware. _Progress, progress_.

Looking through hair the colour of chocolate and the long lashes that had always drawn in admirers Bucky silently questioned him. Did Steve need something? Could Bucky help? They’d never needed words. And Steve could see it, in Bucky’s eyes, in his fingers – those distracting fingers – idly caressing paper and ink, in the page number in the corner that told Steve exactly how long Bucky had been drinking in knowledge. Knowledge he wouldn’t need or want if he was broken. If he’d given up.

Information about how to live in this changed world, how to hold conversations with people of a different time. How to become more, make something of himself, something new and shiny and beautiful. Despite everything, _everything_ , Bucky still had it, carried inside himself, who he was, and Steve, who had missed it, glanced over it for so long, finally saw and was in awe of what he could see looking back.

Without words – _not needed_ – Steve reached across the table and felt restless, moth-wing fingers tap against his palm before stilling. Trusting. Skin and metal and somehow soft and lovely because they were both _him_. He rubbed at those hands still amazed, always _amazedgratefulsofuckinggrateful_ that he still got to, that he got this. That someone, somewhere, decided he deserved this.

Bucky watched him, face much less mobile than _before_ , less expressive, his feelings needed earning now where once they’d been given so generously and Steve would’ve mourned the loss but how could he? It was part of who Buck was now and something that had kept him safe, inside himself. And Steve could never regret working for his smiles, his oh-so-rare laughter. His face was still now but his eyes spoke of affection, deep wells of fondness and curiosity.

“What’re you reading?” Steve asked softly so as not to shatter this moment. One of a string of fond, affectionate, curious moments they’d been sharing more and more often. Bucky didn’t answer verbally, withdrew one hand the least amount necessary to turn the book towards Steve and nudged the seat under him to the side, inviting Steve in. His hand returned to the cradle of Steve’s.

Heads bent forward, Steve’s thumbs rubbing circles into both of Bucky’s palms – skin and metal and Bucky felt it like fireworks – they read and Steve pointed and Bucky raised an eyebrow and Steve laughed and Bucky’s eyes joined in while the tips of his ears turned pink.

And in Bucky’s eyes Steve resolved to never lose sight of it again, because Bucky had fought so hard for so long to protect it, to keep it safe. Hope. For both of them. And it was time Steve fought too. _You wait Stevie, the things we’re gonna do, you and me_.

**Author's Note:**

> From _The Darkling Thrush_ :  
> At once a voice arose among   
> The bleak twigs overhead  
> In a full-hearted evensong  
> Of joy illimited;  
> An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,  
> In blast-beruffled plume,  
> Had chosen thus to fling his soul  
> Upon the growing gloom.
> 
> So little cause for carolings  
> Of such ecstatic sound  
> Was written on terrestrial things   
> Afar or nigh around,  
> That I could think there trembled through  
> His happy good-night air  
> Some blessed hope, whereof he knew  
> And I was unaware.  
>  _-Thomas Hardy_
> 
> Thank you for reading this first attempt at their adorableness, comments and kudos are very appreciated :)


End file.
